Читать книгу Christmas Confessions - Kathleen Long - Страница 8

Jack pulled his rental car to a stop in front of the quaint townhouse. Small white lights twinkled from the short hedge lining the home’s oversized windows.

Figured Abby Conroy would have holiday lights.

Based on the tone of her voice when she called, Jack’s earlier visit had served to snap her out of any holiday cheer she’d been experiencing.

Jack unfolded himself from the car and headed toward the door. Around the side, she’d said.

Dark sidewalk. Isolated entrance.

The woman was nothing if not a picture of what not to do when devising personal security.

She’d provided him with her home address, but Jack had already been able to ascertain that information without so much as pulling a single departmental string.

He’d tracked her by working backward from her postcard confession site through the registration database and public contact information he’d pulled online.

If Boone Shaw—or anyone, for that matter—decided to target Abby Conroy, nothing about the woman’s life would make finding her a challenge.

Now that Jack had had time to stew on the information he’d received, he was certain Boone Shaw had gone underground for a reason.

Shaw had never vanished so thoroughly before, and even though he’d never been picked up on any sort of charge during the eleven years since the trial, he’d left a trail.

Until now.

Business dealings. A new photography studio. Credit card and mortgage debt.

The man had led a normal life, a full life, a life he didn’t deserve.

A calm sureness slid through Jack’s system as he headed toward Abby Conroy’s door.

There was always a chance Shaw wasn’t the person physically sending the cards, but Jack had no doubt he was responsible. Somehow.

The man had killed Emma, just as he’d killed Melinda Simmons and the others.

Jack had seen it in Shaw’s eyes the day they’d pulled the man into custody along with the piles of so-called modeling shots he’d accumulated during his time as a photographer.

The man had been guilty—a sexual predator with a camera. And his victims had been only too willing to pose, believing his promises of bright futures, bright lights, big dreams come true.

“Can I help you?” A thirtysomething man wearing only a pair of jeans, sneakers and gray sweatshirt stepped into Jack’s path.

Jack’s hand reached automatically for his weapon before he remembered he’d left his service revolver back in Arizona, part of the agreement he’d struck with his chief.

The weight of his backup weapon in his ankle holster provided comfort, but reaching for the gun didn’t fall under the subtle category, nor was the move necessary.

The ghost of Boone Shaw had Jack jumping like a rookie.

Besides, the man before him was more than likely nothing but a neighbor, someone suspicious of a man approaching Abby Conroy’s door.

Jack couldn’t fault him for that, but he could ask questions.

Jack measured the man, from his feet to his face. “A bit cold to be outside without a coat, isn’t it?”

“I spend a lot of time over here.” The man’s dark eyes shifted, their focus bouncing from side to side, never making direct eye contact. “With Abby,” he added, as if use of her name would prove something to Jack, somehow put him in his place.

Jack extended his hand. “Detective Jack Grant. I’m here on official business.”

The other man blinked, his expression morphing from aggressive to vacant. “Dwayne Franklin. Abby and I have a…relationship.”

Jack doubted the validity of the man’s statement based on his inability to make eye contact.

If anything, the man was a neighbor who thought he had a relationship with Abby Conroy—yet another security issue Jack planned to talk to the woman about.

Jack flashed his shield, and the man uttered a quick good-night as he headed toward the house next door.

Abby pulled the door open, having apparently heard voices.

“Detective Grant?”

“You might as well start calling me Jack.” He jerked a thumb toward the neighbor’s house. “Does your neighbor make a practice of lurking outside your house?”

A crease formed between Abby’s brows and Jack noted her coloring seemed paler than it had been that morning. “Dwayne?”

Jack nodded.

“He hung the lights for me earlier. He was probably checking his work.”

Jack gave another sharp nod, saying nothing. Let the woman believe what she wanted to believe. As far as Jack was concerned, her neighbor’s actions were a bit too overprotective.

Jack had always been a master at assessing people and their situations, and this situation was no different.

Abby Conroy apparently trusted everyone, her postcard confessors and loitering neighbor included.

Jack trusted no one.

Any work they did together ought to prove interesting, if nothing else.

He chuckled under his breath, quickly catching himself and smoothing his features. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found anything humorous. But if he was forced to work alongside Ms. Conroy in order to flesh out this lead, he might as well enjoy himself.

“Something funny, Detective Grant?”

Confusion flashed in the woman’s pale eyes, yet it was a second emotion lurking there that sobered Jack, an emotion visibly battling for position.

Fear.

Maybe Abby Conroy wasn’t as naive as Jack had thought.

He shook his head. “I meant no disrespect, but you and I need to talk about protecting yourself.”

He patted the door frame as he pushed the door shut behind them. The flimsy door boasted nothing more than a keyed lock.

He tapped the knob. “There’s this new gadget called a dead bolt. You might want to check it out.”

But his warning fell on apparently deaf ears. Abby showed no sign of having heard a word he’d said.

She hadn’t explained the reason for her call, and Jack hadn’t pressed her. He’d hoped she wanted to talk to him about a change of heart regarding the archived postcards.

But as Abby pointed to a stack of postcards sitting on an end table, then reached for one in particular, Jack’s stomach caught.

“He’s sent another, hasn’t he?”

She handled the card by the edges, handing it to Jack even as she spoke, not answering his question, but rather reciting the card’s message from memory.

“She shouldn’t have ignored me.” Abby’s voice dropped low, shaken.

Jack forced himself to look away from her face, to shove aside the ridiculous urge to reach for her, to promise her he wouldn’t let the man responsible for sending the postcards touch her.

He forced himself instead to reach for the card, to study the message.

The sender had once again used a nondescript white mailing label, printed in what appeared to be laser printer ink. The label had been adhered to the back of a plain white postcard.

Nondescript. Untraceable.

Again.

But there was nothing nondescript about the photograph glued to the opposite side.

Jack turned the card over in his hand and swore beneath his breath at the sight of the face captured in the black-and-white print.

His features fell slack, slipping like the strength in his body.

Abby placed one slender hand on his arm. “Detective? Are you all right?”

Her words reached him through a fog of semiawareness. The face on the photograph fully captured his focus, his senses, and yet he’d never seen this particular photograph before.

Never before.

Jack set down the card long enough to reach for his briefcase, extracting a small evidence bag. He slid the postcard inside, carefully touching only the edges even though he knew the card had been handled countless times during its journey through the mail.

“Detective?” Abby released his arm, but her tone grew stronger, more urgent. “Is she one of the five from New Mexico?”

Impressive. Abby Conroy had done her homework during the hours since he’d stepped into her life and world, something that didn’t surprise Jack in the least.

He steeled himself then nodded, tucking the card away before he looked up. “Her name was Emma. She was nineteen when he killed her.”

“Emma?”

Jack shoved down the tide of grief threatening to drown his senses.

“Emma Grant?” Abby asked softly.

Jack gave another nod, not trusting his voice at the moment and not wanting Abby to sense how much the card had rocked him.

The bastard had sent a picture of Emma. A picture Jack had never seen either in Emma’s personal belongings or the photos taken from Boone Shaw during the original investigation.

“I’m so sorry, Detective.”

“Are you ready to work with me now?” Jack purposely redirected the conversation, wanting Abby’s cooperation, not her sympathy.

Abby’s throat worked. “I’m sorry for how I acted earlier. I was being defensive and I was wrong.”

Jack pointed to one of the living-room chairs, gesturing for Abby to sit. “Tell me what you found out since this morning, then I’ll fill in the gaps.”

As Abby recounted the news articles she’d uncovered online, Jack leaned his hip against a second chair, and wondered whose face Shaw would feature in his next message. And when?

No matter. Jack was here now. He had eleven more years of experience than he’d had the last time he’d gone up against Boone Shaw, and this time he was ready.

Jack planned to do exactly what Herb Simmons had asked him to do—whatever it took to make sure Shaw didn’t get away again.

This time, Boone Shaw was going to pay for the lives he’d ended, the families he’d ripped apart and the heartache he’d inflicted.

This time, Boone Shaw was going away.

For good.

HE WONDERED HOW many people remembered the girl in the photograph—her blond hair bouncing around her shoulders in natural waves, her dark eyes bright and hopeful.

He remembered those eyes in death, still searching as if pleading for her life.

Her parents had died not long after she’d been found dead and battered, her body dumped in Valley Forge National Park. A freak accident in a snowstorm had taken their lives, if he remembered correctly.

His mind and sense of clarity might not be what they’d once been, but his sense of what drew people’s attention hadn’t faltered.

If he played this right, the Don’t Say a Word site might prove to be the opportunity he’d been seeking for years.

One more anonymous card confessing a murder, one more innocent face, one more blog and the story would take on a life of its own.

And there was nothing he loved more than a story—a good story.

A new postcard would launch this particular story into the national focus, and he’d be right there to reap the benefits.

What would the media call the sender? The Christmas Killer? The Christmas Confessor?

He laughed, enjoying the moment.

The Christmas Confessor.

He liked it. He liked it a lot.

He carefully adhered the print to the postcard then affixed the one-line message to the back.

No one likes a show off.

What would Abby Conroy say about this card? Would she call him an opportunist?

Perhaps.

But then, she wouldn’t be far from the truth, would she?

He thought about logging on to the Internet and visiting the confession site again to stare at the first card, to study the expression on Melinda Simmons’s young features, but he forced himself to focus.

Forced himself to finish the task at hand.

He carefully tucked the postcard into his briefcase, careful not to leave any prints. Then he reached for his coat. After all, the night air outside had gone cold and raw and he had miles to go.

Miles to go.

Things to do.

And confessions to deliver.